I become seas of fire but
It does not melt snow;
I melt hearts and I brand
Lovers, with words and titles
bereft and sold – the highest bidders
swallowing me in laughs.
but you're not rabbits, and I'm not AliceI made a wish today with witch-made bells and his green shop dust.
I visualized you – Christmas time and your image painted in my iris, as if setting goals and dates to memorize… from where you stood, you were angels and Christ rolled up into one; the shadow of the window nativity and tangible hope.
God knows I wanted to drink it in, until my eyes were ash and my lungs were you.
I know why Alice went down the rabbit whole; this “what if” disease consumes us all.
we all fall downI.
my throat did taste
in my eyes
(if only I'd some kerosene
to set these lies afire)
they desired me
my crows to hide...
but they made night
and night did make
a critical November;
radiation killing cancer
a stem for you,
a thorn for me;
a briar mind
to hide unseen
and two cents guessing
.I beat my head into the glass shop windows – as if that would knock you out of me – clutching at my heart to assure this aching chest that I still live. Perhaps, in a way, it was the motivation I needed to keep punching pulses into my wrist. (I ache more acutely than any time before, or for any person before.)
I know this is a cheesy love-thing (one I thought I’d never write, and therefore can’t find it in me to name), but I can’t help but fill you into every single word and page - and therefore need to ink you out. I need to breathe you, need to tell you… tell you that sometimes, just sometimes, I can’t help but hate you – and love you – for ripping me open to bleed him out; and I’ve tried to grip at the scars that see him differently. But he will never be you, and I’m starting to doubt that I’ll ever feel whole, while I marvel over not why I still breathe, but how, when sometimes all
InfiniteWe’d make a beautiful constellation,
You and I –
shivering galaxies that may implode
but who keep expanding,
still hiding in gravitational lenses
of sheer splendor -
a thousand and one stars;
we could wish for personals
or maskless parades
without crippling facades-
not nameless but known.
You and I,
we could be brighter
than the sun.
another morning, another nightMaybe ingesting you
wouldn’t be so bad:
my terms, my pace..
but dear, this is a thunder-belly,
filled to brim with watered tears
and static light –
cumulonimbus ten drops away
from the greenstick fracture
that comes when you’re pushed
in from two
Him. His. Mine. Yours.
I’ve been invaded – degraded –
until scum were these veins
and I kept losing hands in
Well I’m tired of poker
(of thieves after pearls
and of pearls begging thieves)
so please let my heart remain
undiscovered — a child’s lover—
a psychologist to the lonely faces
inside the lonely morning
comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
prophet-bone(You speak of the sea in colors and ash,
but I never felt condemned)
deserts crack your lips,
spilling sand past snake-bite hands
while you preach of how god brings rain.
I have to wonder when the last time
was that you had a solid drink of air.
Or perhaps you are too full:
hot air balloons to journey up to ceilings
where you spill horizon eyes to be.
I envy NeverlandShe becomes Tinkerbelle,
weaving coffins with her toes
and stealing kisses from magpie crows,
every breath heaving lungs
of ash & featherdust.
No one believes –
death keeps her like a secret
pulled behind gums and marbled teeth,
white-knuckled and bonedry –
so she chokes on bible verses
and desires angel faith;
but Peter Pan’s with Wendy
and lost boys, well, are lost,
and I am shredding pages;
it’s the way in which she writes
and the ease in which I burn.
I will. (warning for prose,but mostly description)I.
I will rouse myself from casket mornings, and I will flex the 11 (or was it 12?) muscles in my mouth to form a smile—however painful. I will keep it there… because kindness bandages wounds in the best of ways. I will sip the horizon from my coffee, while weaving fairytales—without ever thinking that I’ve not the innocence anymore… because I’ll make it not matter. I will.
And I will forget him. I will… because ghosts only appear if you look at them, and he’s loved my nightmares—my tears—long enough. And because I’ve haunted myself long enough.
I will allow myself to feel human again, because I’ll remember that rain rids filth, but I’ll try to keep myself wishing less for forgetting-tsunamis… less for escapes just because of prints engrained in roots and soul. So I’ll forget his fingers straying past my heart—the way muscles seized, and cardiac arrest knew betrayal—and the way
“You’re winter… someone unknown—unfeeling,” I am told by the inferno minds of mothers, poison ivy-handed and strangled by a sorrow far deeper than blue trenches… and perhaps, then, bruises are truly meant as warmth for starving hearts.
When you browbeat desolation with the same fist, I drown and sob in nailboards, your absence pinned within my throat.
“You’re nothing but deserving,” I am told by stainless steel and death, angry and hidden alongside pillow-roofs and prayers. And maybe I don’t believe in god as I believe in it, directing midnight shadows through the intersections of scar tissue. I am only known by five white walls.
weightless and dizzy-faced, they are the only true friends: iron-lipped and stable.
“You’re too pretty to be so shy,” I am told by a man with fishing hooks for fingers… so I sing and sigh in song, like sirens ‘neath his boat.
I am skinned from the sea three
my requiem, your gospelyou send higher than Everclear,
until i see jesus, wearing
salvation clouds and frowns
you send higher,
until i am helium and spaceships
bound for Sol or Vega,
burning through addiction craters
faster than euphoria.
for she is a sinnerAngels eat her alive,
the way she deserves:
molting downy feathers
in a hermetic esophagus—
like her lungs,
pooled with words
She is choked by halos,
and expecting expansions
spanning clouds and Niles
of rosemary tears;
( yet no ocean cried,
and no tsunami felt,
will rid the torture justified
in each holy touch upon
soiled cheeks: wet Liar’s runoff.
It falls so easily down her throat,
to drown more words. )
and she almost warns them
to stay away: She is filth.
but they lovingly caress
and they carefully sink
their glittering pearls into her
just the way she deserves.
LandslideYearning for birds –
the reminder of anchors in
each half-moon cresent
so lovingly carved into my soles.
And you play hopscotch in my veins -
the ones forbidden now to bleed -
until I am beaten blue and flat
but there are sparrows in my brain
among cerebral cortex clouds,
and that should be enough...
only it isn’t.
blujayHer spine is crumpling into origami cranes, left in jars beside a dreamer’s dresser (I childishly hope they stretch bone-wings to heights, little Icaruses, as they tempt the gods in flight).
I don’t wish to be nomads, wandering through the birdhouses of “if”s and “when she dies…” for I’ve been a gypsy of apology, ghosting through sterilized rooms and bed-feet, as much an apparition as Reapers; and because I could not see Them, I learned to say “goodbye.”
I do not wish to make my nests of broken bottles and her flattened dreams.
grandfatherwhose cheeks were mazes
worn from silent tears,
wrinkles nests like homes
burned through and lived.
whose mazes I discarded apathy
into - into December nightmares
of trenches filled with snow-screams,
God only present in the miracle of an inch.
"I thought you'd be around [to speak them] forever."
He's beneath the flag...and I hope
he smiles, beneath Mable-colored
fields of whatever heaven is...
and I hope God loves him more
than I do--did.
(and a ghost-
lip later, only God
knows if you heard me)
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
motionlessthere aren't words in the English language
to properly describe this loss. blackness.
blink out. fade out. go out. not
with a bang, but a whimper, your
thoughts won't unknot
from my own, i hear you in my dreams;
sleeping is my obituary for everyone
my antithesis, i'm so fucking terrified
you were right and that some part of me
needed you for a genuine reason.
emotion is not bottomless and you
are not forever. i miss you. i miss
how easily you made me cry. stale
mornings and birds that fly the wrong
direction are nothing compared to the way
you relit the world, birthing new stars
every time you touched something
you pretended to understand.
i never believed in your god, but i hope
you'll forward the prayers i sent
my earthly limitation, i'm sorry
you hurt so bad but i'm glad
it's directed at me. you should never
have to hold all that on your
own. emptiness cannot be ignored
or displaced; i wish i was better
at listening. tomorrow
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience in
the holy water of my wrists,
I carve hearts from empty
paper for my galaxyboy
with stars written in his skin,
and I swallow moths to
muffle the emptiness and
help me fly away.
9729 kilometers away, to be exact.i have these bones like flowers-
fragile and finely plucked,
these lily stargazers
are kissing ocean beds,
making love to sirens
for a taste of her
i want to tape maps to my limbs-
throw caution to the wind
as i gather up
every love letter receipt,
from every false attempt
i ever wrote her
& forget for just a moment
that even still
she does not love me.
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
You hate doctors,
and you hate
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
Their True Feelings-Chapter 10-Uncertainty Part 2Mephiles's POV
Sorrow has a way of taking over even the most innocent of people. It was this thought that kept Mephiles wondering why people tried so hard to hide their negative feelings, even though they always acted on them. Silver was proof of this to him.
Mephiles could sense deep hate in eyes, the same hate that he himself once had, or rather now had.
For once however, he could understand Silver's heart. Unrequited love is so painful. It even sometimes makes people feel like they are dying inside because they can't be with the person they wanted the most.
But, did this mean that one should act on their emotions when they felt things like jealousy and hate? Mephiles asked himself this question over and over, and still couldn't come up with an answer.
Silver however seemed to have chosen what he wanted to do, even if meant having Sonic hate him for the rest of his life.
“I never thought this could be so easy, “ Silver said happily as he made his way back to Mephiles.
mutterings from over the cuckoo's nesti.
it is dark. that
is a judgment. my roommate
is snoring, and somewhere,
a girl is crying because
she doesn't have a heart
so she doesn't have
a home. if we are time bombs,
I think I must have detonated
a little late. it is dark
and I can't see
why all problems are defined
but their need to be solved.
I dream in color, but I live
in black and white. I drown
in gray faces that don't
sound familiar; it is dark
and I can't remember
the last time it was bright.
I am afraid
of caring. we are a strange
people, we, who love by
hating ourselves, by bleeding
am afraid that
one day, I might start crying,
and I won't be able to stop and
it will be the second Great Flood,
all the world will drown in
my mistakes. You
draw that out of me,
like a marionette on
a string, you pull these
anchors out from
my stomach until I
can hardly breathe. you
live on the other half of the mirror,
I am afraid
that distance is too
in the end,
it's all the same. every
NaPoWriMo: Day 10 Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece
that buckled just before your whole foundation
& no matter
how many times
I've restarted your heart,
one would think
I'd grow tired,
I'm still writing you in poetry
(in the most inappropriate of places.)
You forced yourself beneath my blades
& my fingertips,
Licking unstable knees,
you were death on my tongue:
angry apricot eyes, unforgivable sin
scaring my limbs &
haunting my dreams.
& I'd still try to save your fucking life.
I don't just harm myself. I always hurt other people.
A bit, yes. Or, rather, a rough month.
I should be better soon... it's just all the little things piling up, and I usually don't even know what I become upset over, so it's really hard to help myself when I don't even know the problem.
Thank you for caring. You always make me smile, for sure! So that's a victory within itself